


Wrongful Death

by TeethOfTheHydra



Series: Wrongful Death [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Post Reichenbach, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeethOfTheHydra/pseuds/TeethOfTheHydra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade and Donovan meet with John Watson nine months after the death of Sherlock Holmes. They mean to talk him out of suing Scotland Yard, but when John confronts Donovan he finds out why she always held a grudge against Sherlock. Secrets come out and Donovan finds out that everything she thought she knew about Sherlock Holmes was wrong.</p><p>Originally posted to ff.net and revised to be posted here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrongful Death

"Put a stop to this, Inspector," the new Chief Superintendent had said, as though it were that simple.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade didn't protest. He knew he was lucky to still have his job, and this was, after all, his mess to clean up, because he was the one to bring Sherlock Holmes into the fold in the first place. He couldn't accept _all_ of the blame, however. He didn't ruin Sherlock's life all by himself, but it was probably his betrayal that pushed Sherlock over the edge. He didn't need a lawsuit to tell him that.

Sergeant Sally Donovan had certainly had a hand in it, too. That was why she was accompanying Lestrade to John Watson's flat, whether she liked it or not.

As if Sherlock Holmes' suicide and subsequent redemption wasn't enough of a public relations nightmare, the last thing the Met needed was a lawsuit brought by a veritable folk hero and the powerful family of the fallen idol. No one ever saw or heard from Sherlock's family, but Watson was all over the place. He was now more famous than Sherlock, and Sherlock was posthumously a Big Fucking Deal.

People didn't often win wrongful death cases against the police, but this one had the support of Sherlock and John's loyal Internet fan base. Every university student in the country had a poster of Sherlock Holmes pinned to their wall or a t-shirt with his face on it. His silhouetted profile with the deerstalker hat was painted and plastered all over the city.

And the tabloid press was suddenly very Team Sherlock. Lestrade found it funny how the press was all about calling Sherlock Holmes a fake genius until the police investigation officially declared him innocent and 100% authentic. The media's about-face from vilifying Holmes to vilifying Scotland Yard for vilifying Holmes was staggering. But they couldn't very well sue The Daily Mail for libeling a man who wasn't around to defend himself.

So, here they were.

They had arrived at John's new flat and were standing at the front door, daring each other to ring the bell. The new place was a step down from Baker Street. But the doctor hadn't done too badly for himself, even though he could have been a millionaire by now if he'd only sold his story. It would've made for a Hell of a book or a movie. Lestrade understood why John wouldn't want to go back to the flat he shared with Sherlock, but he worried about John living on his own, without Mrs. Hudson to look after him.

Lestrade rang the bell and John turned up at the door less than a minute later, looking pale and scruffier than he remembered. The cane he used the first time they'd met had returned. His brow was deeply creased and his mouth was set in a frown amidst a couple days' worth of beard growth. This was the face of an angry, grieving man if Lestrade ever saw one.

A lot had happened in the months since Sherlock died, but everyone involved was more or less back to where they'd started. Lestrade was suspended until the investigation proved that Sherlock was innocent, and then he was re-instated. Nothing changed for Donovan and Anderson. If they felt any remorse for being so fatally wrong, they didn't show it to Lestrade. The ex-Chief Superintendent was the one to take the fall, so to speak, but it was in the form of an early retirement. That didn't seem like such a bad deal. In fact, there were days when Lestrade wished he'd been forced into retirement. Today was one such day.

Lestrade hadn't realized how much John Watson lost when he lost Sherlock Holmes. Looking at him now, Lestrade knew it was immense and unfathomable. Just dropping the assault charges against him and reading off a public apology on the telly did very little to make up for how badly he was wronged by them.

"Come in," John said, and then turned to limp toward a set of stairs at the end of the hallway. They followed him down to the basement and he ushered them wordlessly into his apartment.

"Thank you for meeting with us," Lestrade said warmly.

John turned in the middle of his dark, sparsely furnished living room and looked at them with a tired expression. "Have a seat."

Lestrade and Donovan sat down on the sofa opposite the armchair that John stiffly dropped into.

"How have you been, John?" Lestrade asked.

"Fine," John said in a clipped tone

 _So, he won't be offering any tea_ , Lestrade thought. He smiled tightly and said, "Good to hear."

"You're barking up the wrong tree if you're here to stop the lawsuit. It's up to the Holmes estate, not me."

"I think you have plenty of pull with the family. But don't be mistaken, John. I don't want to talk you out of anything. You're entirely justified in what you're doing, and I think you'll probably win," Lestrade said.

John looked baffled. "You think so?"

"Yeah. And I'm sure you could do with the money."

"It's not about the money," John said, his expression turning hard.

"I know it's not."

"It's _not_."

"I believe you," Lestrade said. "Look, I was told to come here and get you to drop it, but I know that's not going to work, so I just wanted to come and apologize to you personally. I can't tell you how sorry I am. We really fucked up."

"Fucked up?" John said. He shook his head and laughed. "You got him involved in work for which he had no training, and exposed him to all sorts of danger. Then you turned on him after working with him for years. And all that after the courts failed to convict Moriarty, in the first place, for the  _crime of the_ _century_. He was caught red-handed and he got off, and then you let him poison you against Sherlock. This was a fuck up on a massive, systemic scale."

"I don't disagree with you," Lestrade said.

"Don't do that!" John shouted suddenly. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not patronizing. I  _do_  agree with you, though. You're not telling me anything I haven't thought myself, a million times. I take full responsibility, John."

John sighed and shook his head, then turned to frown at Donovan again. "And what about you? Why are you even here? You don't seem very keen to admit any mistakes."

She cleared her throat and glanced at Lestrade. "I'm deeply sorry for what happened."

"But?"

"I was doing my job."

"Well, you didn't do it very bloody well."

"I have to consider every possibility, John," she said. "It seemed like a definite possibility."

"Because it was set up that way," John said.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You got played."

"I know."

"You were incompetent."

She hesitated and then said through gritted teeth, "I made a mistake."

John stood up and put his hands on his hips. "Well, if that's all you came to say, perhaps you'd better-."

Donovan put a hand out, "John, please calm down."

"Please show yourselves out."

"John. I wish things had ended differently, but this is not going to change—"

"Shut up!" John shouted. He shook his head and stepped around behind the armchair, striding smoothly without a trace of a limp. He leaned against the back of the chair and paused to take a deep breath. "If you- You. If you didn't have it out for Sherlock  _from the very beginning-_  If you'd thought about it for more than two minutes, you would have known that he couldn't have faked all of that."

"I didn't  _have it out_ —"

"You called him 'Freak' right to his face as a friendly greeting. You hated him. Moriarty must have known that somehow and he exploited it."

It was Donovan's turn to sigh heavily. "We didn't see eye-to-eye, but I never wished him harm, even though he was never exactly pleasant toward me."

"The night we met you told me to stay away from him. You said he was a psychopath. You were implying he was capable of murder even then."

"I didn't mean—"

"What made you think he was a psychopath? I'm genuinely curious," John asked.

"John, Donovan's not to blame here," Lestrade said.

John kept his eyes locked on Donovan's and ignored Lestrade. "Go on. Tell me."

Donovan took a deep breath and leaned back against the cushion. "You know what he was like. Eyeballs in the microwave and all that."

"I knew him. He was a good man."

"I'd never seen a good man so giddy at a crime scene, I know that much," Donovan mumbled.

John's fists were balled up in the blanket on the back of the chair. "He was interested in the mysteries, in solving the problems. He didn't 'get off' on anything. He'd never hurt anyone on purpose."

Donovan scoffed. "What makes you so sure?"

"What are you talking about?"

"There's a lot you didn't see," Donovan said slowly. "He was not exactly trustworthy before you came along. He was a flake and he could be cruel and selfish. And he had a violent streak when he was high. I knew him longer than you, John, you ought to remember that."

"Donovan—" Lestrade started. He wasn't sure exactly to what Donovan was referring, but he knew he didn't like where this conversation was going.

"What the  _Hell_  are you talking about?" John asked.

"Sergeant Patrick _,_ " Donovan said.

"What?" John said.

" _Patrick_?" Lestrade said.

It was a name Lestrade knew well, but hadn't thought about for ages. In fact, the last time he could remember thinking about him was the night he was ordered to arrest Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes. I know  _you_  know probably what I'm talking about, but I doubt John knows anything about it," Donovan said.

Lestrade shook his head and held up a hand. "Now, hold on."

Donovan leaned forward and said gravely, slowly, "The first week I met him, I found out exactly what Sherlock Holmes was capable of and it wasn't all good."

A long-buried image flashed in Lestrade's mind and he felt like he was going to be sick. "Sally, shut up."

"No. He needs to hear it," she said.

"Shut. Up. That's an order, Sergeant Donovan."

Donovan sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. Lestrade marveled at how the topic of Sherlock Holmes would always turn this sensitive, intelligent woman into a petulant child.

John's hands smoothed out the fabric of the blanket he'd been wringing in his hands, and he looked between Lestrade and Donovan. "Did I miss something?"

Lestrade frowned at John and then looked toward the ceiling with a sigh. "Oh, God help me," he muttered.

 

xxx

 

_Five years earlier_

 

Lestrade really had enough to deal with. He had a sick kid stuck at home with his poor, exhausted wife, he had the Holmes kid running around insisting his open-and-shut murder/suicide was actually a double homicide, and now he had to break in a new sergeant, on top of it all.

Sally Donovan was green, but she seemed bright enough. She had an impressive CV, but looking good on paper didn't necessarily mean making a good CID officer.

The big question was whether she would be okay with Lestrade's secret weapon: his consulting detective. The very last thing he needed was for someone to go over his head and complain about him consulting a civilian on his cases.

And Sherlock didn't make it easy to like him.

"You're all so concerned about your stats. You find an answer that suits you and you run with it, even if the facts are obviously contradictory."

"Okay, Sherlock, you've proven your point," Lestrade said through a tight grin.

Sergeant Donovan sat quiet and wide-eyed. Sergeant Patrick leaned against the wall with a cold stare fixed on the back of Sherlock, who was pacing in front of Lestrade's desk.

"Let me see the bodies. Just five minutes. That's all I need," Sherlock said.

Lestrade didn't miss the face that Donovan pulled at that line. He looked to Patrick, who simply shrugged.

"Fine. Five minutes."

"Fantastic."

 

 

Sherlock Holmes had come to Lestrade from up above, so to speak. A mysterious man, neatly dressed, if slightly portly, summoned him in a black car to some undisclosed location and introduced him to his little brother, Sherlock.

The boy was lanky and pale and probably very young, although he wore a grey Cambridge hoodie, so he was at least college age. Lestrade wasn't sure what he was meant to do or say, so he offered his hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a drag off his cigarette.

The man who called himself Mycroft Holmes assured him that his brother would become invaluable, and that it would be wise to give him a chance to prove it.

As vague and haughty as the elder Holmes was, the younger was blunt and tactless.

"I just got out of rehab for cocaine addiction and my brother thinks helping you solve your murder cases might keep me occupied. He doesn't realize that I didn't do drugs because I didn't have anything better to do, but he's managed to force me here, so we might as well humor him," he had said, seemingly absolutely bored to death by it all. "Give me your toughest case and I will solve it for you in less than a week."

Though he thought he'd never heard anything more ridiculous, Lestrade knew he didn't have much of a choice when Mycroft casually mentioned something that happened a long time ago. Lestrade had tried very hard to keep that something from getting out and thought he had been successful. It wasn't anything very serious, just a rookie mistake, but it was big enough that it would be personally embarrassing and professionally, potentially disastrous. And somehow this stranger knew all about it.

So, he gave Sherlock a year-old case the next day, and they had a man in custody six days later. He then went on to solve 15 out of the 20 cold cases given to him over two months. Before long, he was consulting Sherlock on active cases. Just like Mycroft had promised - Perhaps threatened was more appropriate? - Sherlock Holmes had become invaluable to him.

Working with Holmes changed the trajectory of his entire career. He quickly became the most successful Inspector in his division and he was suddenly on track to someday become Chief Inspector. And it was all thanks to Holmes, but if Lestrade had the good sense to listen to the man, then he deserved the rank, as far as he was concerned.

He had to keep it above board. He had to make it known to his team that he was consulting Sherlock, but he couldn't pay Sherlock or let him have unfettered access. And he definitely didn't want any of his superiors to know anything about any of it. It was an open secret.

It went off brilliantly for over a year. Lestrade's closure rate sky-rocketed and Sherlock stayed clean. Sherlock was even able to move into his own apartment. A year went by before Lestrade ever saw Sherlock be wrong about anything.

When he was finally wrong, he was  _spectacularly_  wrong and Lestrade regretted ever associating with him.

 

 

Predictably, Sherlock found something within minutes that proved indisputably that neither of their two bodies could have been a suicide. He brought them to that conclusion days before the medical examiner would have. So, the next step was to go back to the crime scene with Sherlock and see what he could gather from there.

Sherlock noted the minute he stepped into the bedroom that the scene had been disturbed. Of course, when the investigation began, it was assumed that there would be no investigation, because it was so obviously a murder/suicide. He raged on and on about their incompetence and banished them all from the room.

Lestrade suffered it well, as usual, and ordered everyone out.

"You, too," Sherlock said, not turning around.

"Forget it."

"One minute. I need to concentrate."

Lestrade hesitated. He'd never left Sherlock to his own devices at a crime scene. The amount of shit that would roll downhill if any of his superiors found out that he had… but he was in the tall grass on this case already, so he was willing to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt.

"One minute," Lestrade said and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Donovan whistled. "Is he always such a bitch?"

Lestrade nodded. "More or less. Yeah."

"He's not so bad once you get used to him," Patrick said. "He gets results. He just needs to be put in his place."

Lestrade's hair stood up on the back of his neck. He looked from the door to Patrick and then to his watch.

"Well, I hope he never turns on me," Donovan said and chuckled.

Lestrade returned his gaze to Patrick and studied him closely. Patrick had an eerily ever-present calm about him. His voice was monotone. His face was almost expressionless, all the time. He had a deadpan sense of humor, which really made Lestrade laugh sometimes. He was mostly the sort of guy anybody would want to have a pint with. Only, every once in a while he would do or say something that would stop Lestrade cold.

This time, it was the look in Patrick's dark eyes, as he talked about Sherlock needing to "be put in his place." Despite the innocuous tone in his voice, it was hard for Lestrade to miss the sinister implication. He'd seen that look a dozen or so times. It wasn't something he could describe to someone, but rather one of those things any policeman worth his salt learns to pick up on.

 

xxx

 

"I can't even remember what I was doing that I couldn't go with him." Lestrade paused and then added, "No, I do remember. I had to testify in court that day."

Donovan said, "I remember that. I had to go with you."

"We had discovered a possible suspect and Sherlock wanted to be there for questioning, and he insisted we had to do it right away," Lestrade said. He turned his attention to John. "I wanted to send him with Donovan, but he said she was too new. Even then, he was telling me how to do my job."

"Sounds familiar," John said fondly.

"He wanted Sargeant Patrick to do it," Lestrade said. "This was before he started just going off on his own. He thought Patrick was the only competent investigator we had. But I was afraid he would give Sherlock a little too much freedom if I weren't there to supervise. Plus, I had this notion that he and Sherlock were going to come to blows before long, even though they got along. I just couldn't trust him."

"Who? Sherlock?" Donovan asked.

"No, Patrick."

"Really? Why wouldn't you be able to trust him?"

"I couldn't really tell you. Just one of those things," Lestrade said.

"Spit it out. What happened?" John said. He was seemingly growing more concerned by the second.

Donovan scoffed. "Sherlock beat the man to within an inch of his life with his own nightstick, that's what happened."

"Well, there's more—"

"Patrick said he just snapped," Donovan said.

"Snapped?" John said.

"There was more to it than that," Lestrade said.

 

xxx

 

Lestrade waited an hour before he was finally called to the stand. His testimony only took seven minutes, but he had to wait around another hour and a half for court to be dismissed before he could leave. Not that he was keen to rush back to work. His stomach knew exactly when noon was, and it was protesting loudly.

As he and Donovan joined a queue of people leaving the courtroom, he turned his mobile back on. He had just missed four text messages from Sergeant Patrick's phone.

 

_Today 11:50 AM_

_I need help. I don't know where I am. SH_

 

The next message was a picture of the area and Lestrade recognized it right away.

 

_Today 11:52 AM_

_COME ALONE. SH_

 

_Today 11:53 AM_

_Please hurry._

 

Lestrade stopped in the middle of the crowd in the hall outside the courtroom and read over the texts again.

"You okay?" Donovan asked, walking back toward him.

He didn't answer.

The texts were obviously from Sherlock, but sent from Patrick's phone. That didn't bode well. And the fact that Sherlock didn't know exactly where he was, he found especially worrying. Sherlock was a human GPS in London.

He wasted no time in replying.

 

_Sent today 12:01 PM_

_I'll be right there._

 

"I've got to run an errand," Lestrade told Donovan. "I'll see you back at the office."

With that, he ran toward the exit with Donovan shouting behind him, "Hey! You're my ride!"

"Sorry!"

 

It was ten minutes dodging through the traffic with the sirens and lights blaring to get in the right area, and it was another five minutes to find the right lot. He spotted a squad car, parked with one of the doors open. Then he noticed the body lying on the ground next to it. It was hidden from the road and the area was basically deserted in the middle of the day. It was almost dark between the overcast sky and the shadow of the bridge and the buildings around them.

Lestrade pulled up behind the car and rushed over to the body on the ground, which it turned out was Sgt. Patrick. He was bloodied and unconscious. A blood-soaked baton lay next to him. Lestrade bent down to check at his neck for a pulse and felt a good strong beat. He also felt his breath coming regularly and he sighed in relief

"He'll need an ambulance," a distinctive baritone voice spoke from behind him.

 

xxx

 

Lestrade wondered if he'd be able to get away with lying. Perhaps he could just be very vague and they'd accept that Perhaps he could tell them there was a giant baby in the corner and then dash out of the room while they had their backs turned.

"He put him in a coma," Donovan ranted. "It was serious. He could have died."

Lestrade shook his head. "He woke up less than forty-eight hours later. It was a simple concussion and a punctured lung."

"A concussion and a punctured lung? Wow," John said, holding up his hands. "Sherlock beat up a cop?"

"Yeah, after he tried to force himself on him," Donovan said.

"I'm sorry, what?" Lestrade said. This was quickly getting out of hand.

"He told me Sherlock came onto him and then started trying it on with him after he turned him down. Then when Patrick pushed him away, he snapped and started beating on him."

John's mouth fell open. "No. No way. That cannot be true," he said.

"It's not," Lestrade assured him.

"Oh, it is. Creigh-- Patrick told me. And I saw him in the hospital afterward," Donovan said to Lestrade.

Lestrade said, "Are you done?"

"No, because what really did me in was that you covered it up just to save your own neck. You made sure Patrick got transferred out of CID, ruined his career, and then you went out of your way and smoothed it all over for Sherlock. Gang of teenagers, my arse. He told me what really happened. You bent over backwards for Sherlock and screwed over one of your own, just so you wouldn't get in trouble for consulting a civilian."

He was incensed. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Sally. Do you really think I would do something like that?"

 

xxx

 

Lestrade whipped around to see Sherlock struggling to sit up in the backseat, his legs hanging limply out of the car. Lestrade had totally overlooked him there.

Sherlock had blood on his hands and it was flecked all over his navy blue shirt and his face. The black blazer he'd been wearing earlier that day was draped over his lap and he was clutching it against his belly. He looked worse for wear, though nowhere near as bloodied as Patrick.

Lestrade stepped closer and said, "Sherlock, are you okay? What the Hell happened here?"

Sherlock slumped against the back of the seat and let his head fall to the side. His face was beet red and splotchy, and he had sweat matting his curly hair to his forehead. "We had a little trouble," he said in a gravelly voice.

Lestrade frowned. "Did someone attack you two?"

He bent down to get a closer look at Sherlock and noticed for the first time that Sherlock had a set of handcuffs binding his wrists together in front of him.

"No."

"God, Sherlock. Did you two get into it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "Something like that."

Lestrade stood up and crossed his arms. "Did you do this?" he said, gesturing toward Patrick, who remained on the ground.

"Yes. But—"

"Fucking Hell, Sherlock! You beat him unconscious-- with his own baton, by the looks of it. What the Hell has got into you?"

Sherlock winced. "It was self-defense. Look, can I explain later? I think I need medical attention, and I  _know_  he does." His upper lip curled into a scowl.

"What's wrong with you?"

He meant that to be more, " _What the fuck is wrong with you?"_  and less a question about his physical condition, but if Sherlock picked up on that, he disregarded it.

"Well, I'm bleeding and my heart is beating irregularly. And I'm feeling rather weak and sore."

Lestrade's mouth snapped shut. He paused long enough to notice the two taser probes sticking out of Sherlock's chest through his shirt, wires leading down to a taser gun lying on the floorboard of the car. His eyes did a quick scan of Sherlock's body and he couldn't see any bleeding.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he said, "Take me in your car and call an ambulance for the Sergeant. Report to your lot that he was assaulted randomly. Band of hooligans."

"Oh. Okay. Right." Lestrade quickly made his calls and then set about unlocking the handcuffs.

"Give me a second," Sherlock said. He let out a long shuddering breath.

Sherlock finally gestured for Lestrade to come closer and Lestrade slipped his arm around Sherlock's back. Sherlock hissed as he sat up straight and threw his arm around Lestrade's neck.

He got Sherlock out of the car and on his feet, but he was still doubled over, clamping his jacket protectively over his lap. Lestrade kept his arm hooked around Sherlock and waited for him to catch his breath.

"Can you walk?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock craned his head up and narrowed his eyes at Lestrade. "I will crawl on my hands and knees before I let you carry me."

"Fine."

"I just need a second."

"Take your time," Lestrade said.

"The paramedics will be here in about three minutes. I can't be seen here."

Lestrade didn't bother asking how he knew that. He just stood there patiently, waiting for Sherlock to get his bearings.

Sherlock took a deep, pained breath. "Okay, quickly," he said.

"Okay." He didn't question Sherlock's orders. Between his labored breathing and the way he limped when he walked and winced at every slight movement, Lestrade was growing more and more concerned. He was entirely focused on just getting the man to a hospital.

He bundled Sherlock into the car carefully and then rushed around to the driver's side. As he got in and started the engine, he looked over at Sherlock sorrowfully.

"Just go. Now," Sherlock said.

 

xxx

 

"Did he say what happened?" John asked.

"Not at first," Lestrade said.

"Patrick tasered him to get Sherlock off of him," Donovan said. "That's what happened. Then he handcuffed him and Sherlock proceeded to steal his baton and beat him with it.'

Lestrade shook his head. "I was there right after, Sally. That wasn't how it happened."

"And I saw Patrick and Sherlock the next day, and only one of them was unconscious and on a respirator," she said.

"Sherlock was hurt, too," Lestrade said.

"Yeah, well he  _was_  a good liar and if anybody could fake an injury, it would be him."

Lestrade just shook his head. "You've got it wrong. Patrick lied to you, Sally."

Donovan said. "Why would _he_ lie, though? What bloke would tell a woman that stuff, if it didn't really happen? He turned out to be a jerk, but I still believe him. I mean, I had a relationship with him, which is more than anyone can say for Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, fuck _you_ ," John said.

Lestrade suddenly had a stabbing pain between his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You dated Creighton Patrick?"

Donovan shrugged. "Yeah, for a bit. Until he upped and moved away and stopped calling me."

"I had no idea,' Lestrade said. "Or else I would have never let you do that."

" _Let_  me? Oh, please."

"He didn't ever hurt you did he?" Lestrade said.

Donovan's confident exterior faltered and her face fell. "No. of course not."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade looked at her pointedly.

"He never touched me."

Lestrade sighed in relief and let his shoulders sag.

John cleared his throat. "So… How bad was Sherlock hurt?" he asked. He looked at Lestrade closely, seemingly searching his face for something, which unnerved Lestrade something awful.

"That's the thing," Lestrade started. "He didn't have any visible injuries, but he was- It feels so wrong talking about this, even though he's gone." He ran his hands over his face

"Oh god. What are you saying?" Donovan asked.

 

xxx

 

Lestrade turned on his lights and sirens and roared onto the street.

"Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock said.

Lestrade fished it out of his pocket and handed it over. "What happened to yours?"

"He threw it out the window of the car." Sherlock took the phone and quickly dialed a number. His head lolled back against the seat, and he was panting as he waited for an answer. "Mycroft, I need discreet medical attention right away. Do you think you can arrange that?" he said.

Lestrade slowed down, expecting to receive directions.

"I'll live," Sherlock said after a sort pause. "It's just a scrape, really. And no, I didn't get shot. It was a taser."

Lestrade looked quickly to the road and coughed.

"Well, brother, I thank you for your concern, but I'd really rather not," Sherlock said. "I was somewhere I shouldn't have been and rather than cause a lot of trouble for everyone involved, I'd just like to be treated quietly so I can go about my day."

Lestrade thought he could hear Mycroft asking if Sherlock was okay, then Sherlock said, "I don't know. Figure out where I can go and text the address to this number. I already have a ride."

Sherlock handed the phone back to Lestrade and said, "Thank you."

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, whose chest was still heaving dramatically.

Sherlock kept his face turned toward the window. "Thank you for not asking questions."

"I will be asking eventually, just so you know," Lestrade said.

The phone went off in Lestrade's hand and he looked at the screen. It was the address they were waiting for. Lestrade slowed and made a turn, watching Sherlock closely for signs of pain.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"My chest hurts. It's hard to breathe."

"How many times did he shock you?" Lestrade asked gently.

"Later," Sherlock said shortly, leaning back as far as he could against the seat. He gasped and his knuckles turned white from balling up in the front of his shirt.

Lestrade opened up the console between the seats and fished out a bottle of aspirin. He handed the bottle to Sherlock and said, "Here. Chew on a couple of those," and then he stepped on the gas.

xxx

They arrived at a small clinic, which looked closed. A black car pulled up on the other side of the street as soon as Lestrade had parked. Mycroft and two women got out of the car. The younger woman was the assistant that Lestrade had seen before. Anthea. He remembered her well. The older woman was tall and thin and elegantly dressed. She had shoulder-length, grey-streaked hair. Lestrade didn't recognize her.

She jogged across the street to the front door of the clinic and unlocked it, letting herself inside. Mycroft strode up to Lestrade as he climbed out of the car.

"You were with him?" Mycroft asked, looking at Lestrade suspiciously, before he bent to the side to look at Sherlock, who was attempting to get himself out of the passenger seat.

"No. He called me," Lestrade said.

Mycroft looked down his nose at Lestrade for a moment before he nodded and then walked toward Sherlock to offer him help. Sherlock held up a hand to Mycroft and braced himself against the car.

Lestrade looked toward the clinic to see the older woman struggling to get a wheelchair through the door. He ran over and held the door open for her. She had changed into a white coat. So, this was the doctor.

Sherlock let Mycroft help him into the chair without protest. The doctor pushed him into the clinic, leaving Lestrade and Mycroft just outside the door with Anthea, her hands stuffed into her coat pockets, hovering behind Mycroft.

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said earnestly as he started for the door. "We'll take it from here."

Lestrade was stunned. It took him a moment to decide how to respond. He finally settled on, "Fuck you," and placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "I'm putting my career on the line messing about with you two. I'm at least going to stick around and make sure he's okay."

"I am more than capable of handling this," Mycroft said coolly.

"He called me first," Lestrade said. He immediately felt terribly childish.

Mycroft turned sharply and walked into the clinic after the doctor and Sherlock.

Lestrade wasn't about to leave it at that. He followed Mycroft inside and stayed hot on his heels. "He should be at a hospital. He's seriously injured."

Mycroft put a hand in his pocket and moved closer to Lestrade. "And how was he injured, Lestrade? In the line of duty, I presume. He said he was tasered—by one of your force? Has that person been punished?"

"He's en route to St. Bart's, I imagine," Lestrade said.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Good job."

"I didn't do it. Sherlock did."

"Ah, so that's why he wants to keep it quiet. Assaulting a police officer. I see. That and, for the sake of sparing you embarrassment, of course."

There was suddenly a commotion coming from inside the room. Sherlock was shouting and there was a crash against the door. Then the door swung open and the doctor appeared looking bewildered.

"Sir, I think you'd better come in," she said.

"You can wait here if you like," Mycroft said magnanimously and started toward the doctor.

The doctor held her palm up to halt him. "No. Not you." She pointed at Lestrade and said, "He asked for you."

Lestrade looked to Mycroft and the elder Holmes just shrugged. "Go on."

"Doctor Finnemore," the woman said and extended a hand to Lestrade.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

He stepped in behind the doctor and found Sherlock sitting on the edge of an examination table with a white paper sheet over it in the corner of the room. He looked like an animal with its foot caught in a trap. His eyes were wide and his jaw was clenched as he took deep, ragged breaths.

"You okay?" Lestrade asked before glancing at the doctor.

"Ahjushuh," Sherlock started and shook his head quickly. "I want to give my statement. Get it over with."

"Right. We can do that," Lestrade said. Of course, he deduced that there was more to it. He figured Sherlock was stalling for some reason.

"I need to get him calmed down," Dr. Finnemore mumbled.

Lestrade nodded. "Sherlock, let her look at you, before you pass out."

Sherlock's panicked eyes flicked between them. He nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

Dr. Finnemore moved closer to Sherlock as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves. She picked up the cuff that was sitting on top of the box and took his blood pressure right away. She frowned at the result, but pressed on.

"Now, I see what look like taser probes on your chest. Were you tasered?" the doctor asked. She moved to touch one of the probes and Sherlock flinched away from her.

"Yes, obviously," he said shortly. "That one's embedded."

"Okay. We'll have to carefully remove it then and get your shirt off to treat the area. How many times were you tasered?"

Sherlock paused and seemed to be trying to count in his head, during which Lestrade held his breath. "I don't know," he said after a while.

The doctor didn't physically react. "More than three times?"

"More than ten."

Dr. Finnemore gently took one of the probes between her thumb and forefinger and quickly plucked it out, which earned her a nasty look from Sherlock.

"Sorry, sir. Nothing else for it. How long do you think the shocks lasted each time?"

Sherlock shook his head and rubbed at the back of his neck, looking lost. Lestrade was amazed at how much he already seemed to have calmed down. He'd stopped gasping and the redness was receding from his face.

Dr. Finnemore did have a comforting quality about her, whilst seeming very professional and capable.

"Not more than thirty seconds," Sherlock said.

Lestrade had a visceral, shuddering reaction to that and said, " _Jesus Christ_."

"Detective Inspector, what is the maximum amount of tasering considered acceptable, according to police training?" Dr. Finnemore asked.

"The standard setting is three seconds at fifty-thousand volts," Lestrade said. "You can hold it a few seconds longer, but they say not to use it more than a few times. I've never had to use it more than once. And you never aim at someone's chest."

"So, that's dangerous," the doctor said mildly.

"People have died from less."

The doctor snatched the other probe out and Sherlock yelped and reeled back. She reached out a hand to his shoulder to still him then rubbed his back reassuringly.

"Okay, that was probably the worst part of this whole ordeal, over and done with," Dr. Finnemore said.

"He took a couple of aspirin in the car," Lestrade said. "Was that all right?"

"All right?" she said and chuckled. "It probably prevented cardiac arrest. His blood pressure is sky high."

What followed, once she had given Sherlock some medicine and gotten him leveled out, was a standard physical examination. The doctor helped Sherlock take his shirt off and she saw to the angry red lacerations on his chest. She listened to his lungs and checked his blood pressure again and looked at his eyes. She asked him to scoot further back and lie down on the table.

Lestrade was sitting uncomfortably in a chair on the other side of the room. Even from his vantage point, though, he couldn't miss the streak of red on the padded top of the table as Sherlock moved back.

Dr. Finnemore hadn't missed it either. Once Sherlock was on his back, she put a hand on his knee. "Okay," she said. "Looks like you're bleeding. Hang on a moment, Mr. Holmes. Inspector, can you please step out?"

"No," Sherlock said and propped himself up on one elbow. "He stays."

Lestrade didn't move or breathe.

Sherlock struggled to sit back up and he looked to Lestrade. "This is why I wanted you here."

"Why?"

"To help collect evidence."

"Evidence…" Lestrade was sure he'd missed something. He looked at the doctor questioningly.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and said. "Come on, Lestrade. You've figured it out by now, surely. I have blood on the seat of my pants. Where do you think it's coming from?"

Lestrade breathed in sharply and looked away. "No. Really?"

Given his training, it probably should have crossed his mind before that moment, but it was just so, quite literally, unthinkable.

"Yes.  _Really_ ," Sherlock said. "And while I don't want to press charges, I do want to make sure everything is documented, in case it comes back on me."

"Okay," Lestrade said quickly. "I'm here."

"I'm sorry," Dr. Finnemore said quietly. "I'll need to step out to gather some things before we continue. Will you be all right?" She touched Sherlock lightly on the hand and he nodded.

Dr. Finnemore swept out of the room and left Lestrade and Sherlock sitting there in tense silence.

With a groan and a gasp, Sherlock sat back up and kicked his legs back over the edge of the table. Lestrade's eyes didn't venture above his ankles.

"Do you believe me?" Sherlock finally asked.

Lestrade's stomach lurched and he quickly looked up into Sherlock's eyes. It hadn't even crossed his mind to second-guess Sherlock. Perhaps that would have been surprising to anyone else, but Lestrade was sort of offended at the idea that Sherlock thought he wouldn't believe him.

"I wish you would press charges," Lestrade said. "He shouldn't get away with it."

"I will not press charges. But don't think for a second he's going to get away with it."

"If you're doing this for my sake—"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Inspector. When have you ever known me to be altruistic?"

"I'm just saying don't worry about my job or your job. That's my responsibility."

"But if they find out you let some junkie tamper with evidence and question witnesses, then not only will you be sacked, but I'll be left with nothing but a sore arse."

"Sherlock—"

"And if he claims that I instigated it in some way, they'll back him up. You know they will. There will be nothing you can do about it, because you'll have been sacked. They all despise me for showing them up in the first place, and police are notoriously loyal to their own. I'll be charged with assaulting a police officer. I'll go to prison and he'll walk free."

"Sherlock, you don't need to worry about any of this right now," Lestrade said.

Sherlock's eyes were glazed over and unfocused as they darted around the room. His chest was heaving again. Lestrade figured he was having a panic attack. He scooted to the edge of his chair, not sure if he should approach Sherlock in his current state.

"I can't even claim self-defense, Lestrade. It was already over by then. I kicked him and he hit his head. He was already unconscious. I lost control and beat him until I  _physically_  couldn't anymore. That's not reasonable self-defense, by any definition."

"Nobody will blame you," Lestrade said.

"Nobody will  _believe_  me."

"That's why I'm here to collect evidence, remember?"

"And if he says I asked for it?"

"You're  _bleeding_ , Sherlock," Lestrade said and cringed.

"It'll be his word against mine. They'll dig up my past and use it against me. There's only one way it can end. I can't go to prison, Lestrade. Can you imagine how unpopular I would be in prison?"

"You're getting worked up again. Just calm down."

"We'll gather evidence and leverage it against Patrick. Get to him before he talks to anybody and make sure he has his story straight."

Lestrade snorted. "You expect me to coach that bastard to lie so he can get away with this, when what I'd like to do is rip his head off with my bare hands."

"You'll be blackmailing him," Sherlock said. "And you'll be finding a good reason to demote him and transfer him. He will not be grateful."

"Wouldn't your brother be able to—"

"Don't tell my brother about this," Sherlock said. His voice was hoarse and demanding, but his eyes were desperate. "As far he's concerned, Sgt. Patrick and I had a row over a case. He cannot know that I was raped."

Lestrade saw sheer mortification on Sherlock's face. It was the first time anyone had actually said that word about what had happened. He watched him silently. Sherlock suddenly sat up straight and tilted his head back, exposing his long neck. Lestrade could see bruises in the shape of smudged fingerprints showing up against his alabaster skin. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes and his face became peaceful. It was as though he'd started meditating right in the middle of their intense conversation.

Lestrade wanted to ask why Sherlock needed to keep it from Mycroft, but he was afraid to speak and shatter that tranquility. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were doing a big, big thing very, very badly.

Dr. Finnemore returned at that moment, and Sherlock snapped out of his trance and looked at her pointedly.

He spoke to her as though he were carrying on a conversation already in progress. "I know you work for my brother, so your professional ethics are already compromised, but I expect confidentiality. If you can't agree to that, I need to go elsewhere."

She was frozen in the middle of the room, holding a cardboard box and a lamp of some sort. "And if you're not going to show me respect, I'd rather you go somewhere else. My only duty is to my patients, and I take that very seriously. It will take a lot more than your brother can manage to get me to forget that."

Sherlock stared her down for a moment longer before nodding and slipping off the table to stand next to it. "You need me to undress, I presume."

The tension visibly melted from her shoulders. "Yes, but not just yet," she said.

She set the box down on the counter. From the box she pulled a bunch of white paper bags. She opened them and arranged them on the floor and Sherlock watched her carefully.

Lestrade was vaguely familiar with this part. He had briefly worked in the sex crimes division when he was rising through the ranks. It was too much for him, at the time. He was young and pig-headed and he lacked the sensitivity required to handle victims. He had never been present for a rape kit, but he had been trained on how they worked.

Sherlock was instructed to stand on a mat and take off each item of clothing and put them in a separate bag. Dr. Finnemore opened up a cabinet and pulled out a neatly folded paper hospital gown and a white sheet, then sat them on the table. She pulled a privacy screen around in front of Sherlock.

"Take your time," she said.

 

Sherlock looked even more vulnerable in the hospital gown, perched on the exam table once again with his naked, skinny legs dangling in front of him.

Dr. Finnemore stuck a pair of latex gloves in Lestrade's face. He looked from the gloves to the doctor's face. He panicked for a moment, thinking what she expected him to do with those gloves.

"Help me label and index everything."

"Oh. Of course." He took the gloves and she handed him the box filled with envelopes and glass slides and individually wrapped swabs.

Lestrade glimpsed the list of questions they had to ask that came in the rape kit. There was a checklist of revolting acts like,  _Oral to anal copulation_. He decided to start by asking Sherlock to describe in his own words what happened.

Sherlock said that Sgt. Patrick had unexpectedly pulled the car over on an empty street. Without saying a word, he had turned on him with his taser gun and shocked him in the chest. While Sherlock was in too much pain to realize what was happening, Patrick drove them somewhere isolated and then shocked Sherlock again. Then he bundled the convulsing man into the back seat and climbed on top of him. He handcuffed him. He pulled down Sherlock's jeans and pants and took off just one of his shoes. Sherlock said that whenever he tried to fight, that's when he would get shocked again. And the shocks didn't stop during the rape. Sherlock said that Patrick put his hand around his throat and choked him as he reached orgasm. Then he collapsed on top of Sherlock and stayed there for long enough for Sherlock to recover. He finally pulled out and tucked himself back into his trousers.

That's when Sherlock took the opportunity to kick him in the gut. Sgt. Patrick hit the back of his head on the metal of the car and it knocked him out. He fell draped over Sherlock's crotch. Sherlock then shoved him out of the car and proceeded to beat him with his own nightstick. He said that bit was sort of blurry.

He explained all of this almost clinically, except for the obvious edge of rage in his tone. His normally bright eyes were black and cold and terrifying in the blue UV light.

While he told the story, Dr. Finnemore had turned the lights out and was searching Sherlock's upper body with the UV light for fluids to sample. She collected hairs from his head and packed the samples away into carefully indexed little envelopes, then handed each one to Lestrade to index.

She switched the lights back on and then it was the doctor's turn to gently ask difficult questions.

"Did your attacker wear protection?" she asked quietly.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Do you know if he ejaculated?"

"He did."

"Did he ejaculate while he was penetrating you?"

"Yes."

"When were you last tested for sexually transmitted diseases?"

"Never."

"Have you been otherwise sexually active in the last twenty-four hours?"

"No."

"In the last six months?"

"No. Never."

Lestrade's heart sank. He had never considered that that could be the case. It wasn't that Sherlock being a virgin made what happened to him worse. It didn't, of course, change anything. It still made Lestrade inexplicably sad.

Sherlock looked bored while the doctor drew blood from his arm. Just moments before he was a raw nerve, worried that his life was ruined forever, and now he was dryly answering deeply personal questions and detailing his assault as though it happened to someone else.

Lestrade assisted by filling out paperwork and sorting and indexing all of the samples the doctor had taken, while she began the part of the examination that Lestrade most dreaded being present for.

She pulled the privacy screen behind her, separating Lestrade from the action.

Mercifully, he couldn't see a thing. But he could still hear the doctor mumbling the entire time, describing what she was going to do next and why. She apparently was inspecting Sherlock's genitals for abrasions. The lights went off again while she collected more samples of hair and fluids. Sherlock seemed okay with all of this.

Then Dr. Finnemore asked Sherlock to roll over onto his side.

"Now I'm going to need to insert one finger to feel for tissue damage," she said. "It's going to be uncomfortable. Tell me if you need me to stop."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Just bear down. There now. Breathe deeply and relax."

Lestrade could hear Sherlock gasping for breath.

After a few minutes, Lestrade saw the doctor step to the side and change her gloves, dropping the old ones into a bin. Then she went to the little rolling table, which Lestrade hadn't noticed until just that moment, standing just beyond the edge of the screen. She picked up an instrument that looked almost like scissors from where Lestrade was sitting. She went to the sink to run hot, steaming water over it.

"We're nearly there now," she said when she returned to Sherlock. "I'm going to get some samples from inside. And I need to check for further lacerations and clean the area. I'm going to use this speculum so I can get a clean sample. Tell me if you need me to stop at any time."

Lestrade heard a low whimper come from Sherlock and he froze and dropped the pen he was holding. It clattered onto the ground with what seemed like an awful clang in the quiet room.

"There's going to be a slight pressure now. Just relax. We're almost done."

Lestrade heard a strangled sob.

"Do you need me to stop?"

"No," Sherlock rasped. "Get it over with."

Lestrade began humming a random tune in his head, trying to block out what he was hearing. He felt like he was intruding. He was sure the last thing Sherlock would want was for him to hear him cry.

The doctor gave Sherlock a shot to numb his pain and she cleaned and stitched him up. She gave him a strong round of antiretroviral medications to prevent infection. She took photos of all of his injuries.

When the screen was pulled away and Lestrade saw Sherlock next, he was lying on his back with the blanket pulled up to his chest. His eyes were red-rimmed and moist. He looked dreadfully tired.

"You did very well," the doctor said as she took the kit from Lestrade and started putting the new samples in their designated envelopes.

Lestrade started to say, "Thank you," but bit his tongue.

"Where's my lollipop?" Sherlock asked dryly.

 

xxx

 

Lestrade joined Mycroft in the waiting room of the empty clinic while Dr. Finnemore performed a few more tests on Sherlock. Anthea had apparently left.

He told Mycroft that the doctor was concerned about tissue damage to his heart from the shocks, but that he was otherwise going to be fine.

Mycroft regarded him suspiciously. "What took so long in there?"

"Just basic stuff," Lestrade lied.

"Basic  _stuff_?" He pronounced, "stuff," as though it tasted bad in his mouth.

"She was just being thorough," he said. "Plus, he was giving her a hard time. You know Sherlock. He thinks he knows better than everybody else."

Lestrade smiled tightly, hoping he had convinced Mycroft to leave it at that.

"Did he tell you what happened?" Mycroft asked.

"Yeah."

"Well?"

Lestrade hesitated a moment. He knew he had to be careful. Now was not the time to betray Sherlock, even if he thought it was for his own good.

"It was just a row over the case," he said. "Sergeant Patrick took a swing at him. He defended himself, and Patrick went for the taser gun. Simple as that."

Mycroft considered it for a moment, but he didn't ask any more questions. "I trust you'll see to it that he's appropriately punished?"

"With pleasure."

 

xxx

 

"I still have everything in a safe deposit box," Lestrade said.

"Oh my God." Donovan's mouth hung open until she suddenly looked to her left with a sharp inhale of breath. "That's why he was on drugs, isn't it?"

Lestrade frowned and shook his head slowly.

"No?" Donovan said.

"No."

"He started doing coke in uni," John said. "That much, I do know about."

"He was fresh out of rehab when I met him," Lestrade said.

"He relapsed, though?" John asked.

"Yeah. Pretty badly," Lestrade said.

"Did he ever get any help? Did he talk to anyone? Go back to rehab?" John asked. His eyes looked desperate.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. He never talked about it to me after that day."

John had moved back to sitting in the armchair across from Donovan and Lestrade on the couch. He balled up his fist and slammed it against the arm of the chair, then paused there, as though he was lost in thought. "Damn him," he whispered.

Lestrade shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He turned to face Donovan. "I probably shouldn't have told you all that, but I couldn't let you keep thinking he was a violent psychopath."

"Yeah," Donovan said. "Yeah."

"What do you think of him now?" John asked. His face was blank and his voice was oddly cold.

Donovan blinked and took a deep breath before she looked at John directly in the eyes and said, "I was wrong."

"But?" John said.

"No but."

"If you had known…" John stopped and closed his eyes. "Would it have changed anything?" He held up his hand and shook his head. "No. I'm sorry. That's not fair. Don't answer that."

"John," Donovan said softly.

"It's fine."

"I'm sorry," she said.

Lestrade was certain she meant it this time. At least, she meant it in a way she hadn't previously. John apparently noticed it, too, because his face softened and he smiled sadly.

"You would do the same thing again, probably," John said.

She frowned. "Maybe not. A lot would have gone differently, I think, long before that."

"Well, this didn't go like I planned," Lestrade said. He laughed nervously.

John smiled again. "You got what you needed, though."

"I did?"

John nodded. "I'm stopping the suit. It's not worth it, anyway."

Lestrade hesitated. "I thought it wasn't up to you. What about the family?"

"Mycroft, you mean."

That was the last thing Lestrade expected to hear. "I'd have guessed Mycroft wouldn't have anything to do with it," he said.

"He's Sherlock's only living relative," John said. "Well, that he had any connection with, anyway. His dad is still alive, but Sherlock hadn't seen or heard from him or anyone else on that side of the family since he was six years old. Besides, he owed me one."

"I didn't think you would even want to talk to Mycroft," Lestrade said.

"Like I said, he owed me one," John said. "But it's sort of hard to avoid Mycroft, if he really wants to talk to you."

Lestrade laughed. "Good point."

Donovan said, "Tell him I'd like to meet him and apologize, if I can. At least offer condolences."

"You haven't met him?" John asked.

She shook her head.

"Obviously," John said and smiled ruefully. "He's a lot like Sherlock. You'd hate him. You should have seen them together, though. It was really something. Their dad left when they were both young, you see, and their mum died when Sherlock was fourteen and Mycroft was twenty-one. So, Mycroft was his legal guardian from that point on. Sherlock resented the Hell out of him. Whenever he was around, Sherlock reverted to a stroppy teenager. It was sort of hilarious."

"I didn't know that about their parents," Lestrade said. He thought hard about it and realized that there wasn't really much that he did know about the Holmes brothers.

"I didn't know it until recently," John said. "Amazing how I lived with him for almost two years and knew nothing about him, and then after he dies people can't wait to tell me all his secrets."

Lestrade stood up to signal that the visit was coming to an end, and Donovan followed suit. John stayed seated and looked up at him with a confused expression.

"It's loyalty-- Why nobody talked about him while he was alive. He had a way of inspiring loyalty in people," Lestrade said. "You know it better than anybody."

John looked at his feet and smiled sadly. "Listen. I'm sorry. I don't really know what I hoped to gain from all this," John said. "I don't need money. I definitely don't want the attention. I guess I just needed to know that you felt something for him. Guilt. Remorse. Loss. Whatever. Anything."

Lestrade was almost bowled over when Donovan stepped around the coffee table to pull John up into a tight hug. John stood there with his arms glued to his sides, staring at Lestrade in shock, until he finally softened and returned the hug. It looked nice and Lestrade had to fight with himself not to join them.

"You got what you needed, too, John," Lestrade said.

**Author's Note:**

> In the next part of the series, Sherlock returns from the dead and John realizes more and more that he never really knew Sherlock, at all.


End file.
